“It’s her cup. The one Sarah gave her, the one Noah put back together.”
I knelt beside him, placed my hand on the glass. “Still in one piece after all these years.”
We shared a smile and rose. Ethan squeezed my hand.
After we shared our findings with Gerald, we walked into the center of Medford toward Cradock Bridge, the very one where the Fultons and Emma and Noah had once lived. We looked out over the bridge to the warehouses, to where John’s distillery had once been.
The Mystic flowed beneath us, and a breeze caressed my skin, stirring something within me that was becoming less and less foreign. “Maybe I’ll come to church with you one of these days,” I said to Ethan.
He raised an eyebrow. “When you’re on leave?”
“No. When I have a weekend off in between work and my classes in Boston.”
He turned to me, hope in his eyes. “Classes?”
“It won’t be until January, but it looks promising. I requested a switch in positions. I’m ready for a new career direction, and I’ve been inspired by Emma and Sarah, all they did to help those men after Bunker Hill. I think I’m going to try my hand at being a medic, go to school for nursing, maybe even become an NP someday.”
“In Boston?”
I smiled, nodded.
He swept me up, pressed his mouth to mine, and I had to admit that there, in Ethan’s arms, in the very place where the Winslows and Fultons fought and lived and loved and died, I felt very, very much at home.
There was no more running away from it. No more wallowing in failures and a need to prove myself brave or strong. I was already loved, just as I was. I was already strong, not because of my muscles, but because of who held me.
That knowledge, more than anything else, called forth a freedom more precious than any I’d ever known.
HISTORICAL NOTE
IN JULY 2017, it was announced that for the first time, a woman would enter the training pipeline to become a Navy SEAL. A couple weeks later, it was reported that she had dropped out. I couldn’t help but imagine what this unidentified woman had gone through and what had propelled her to enter such rigorous training. I decided to explore her story in fiction.
While Emma Malcolm is fictitious, her father, the customs official John Malcolm, is not. In actuality John and his wife had five children, two of whom were deaf. Records indicate he was a harsh man, and while I attempted to remain true to what I read of him, I am hopeful the actual John Malcolm was more caring. John was tarred and feathered by a Boston mob and he is said to have taken a hunk of his tarred flesh to King George and requested to be made a “knight of the tar.” His brother, Daniel, was revered among the Patriots.
Another true-to-life historical figure I explored was Sarah Bradlee Fulton. Though little is written about her, I based much of my findings on information from the Boston Tea Party Ships and Museum website (Sarah is given credit for the idea of disguising the men as Mohawks) as well as a book written by one of her family members, A Woman Fearing Nothing by Brenda Ely Albus. I found this book extremely helpful in aiding this story. And though it seems Sarah helped the “Mohawks” at her brother’s Boston home, for the simplicity of the story I have omitted her brother, Nathaniel.
There is not only record that “a paper was handed out in a very confidential manner,” encouraging the men to ready themselves to destroy the tea that December night in 1773, but according to apprentice Joshua Wyeth, the men had “pledged our honor, that we would not reveal our secret.” Another account tells of a group of the men signing their names to a round-robin—my basis for the oath found in the tea chest. Many Tea Party participants kept their secret until death. Not until the nineteenth century did stories begin to come out surrounding the night of the Tea Party, though descendants took great pains to make the destruction of the tea sound honorable. As the participants became celebrated, stories grew until it seems no one could be certain who truly participated and who did not.
Samuel Clarke was modeled after Jonathan Clarke, who was indeed a consignee for the East India tea and did shoot out the window of his home into the mob in the weeks before the Tea Party. There, the similarities end, and I have fictionalized Samuel for the purposes of the story.
I read no evidence of General Gage himself ordering women spies treated with the cruelty Emma endures, though I have come upon other reports of harsh treatment done to women suspected of spying during the Revolution.
Continuing to research Revolutionary Boston, I thought of my present-day heroine, Hayley. She, like Emma, longed to serve her country and, at the same time, to show her strength and worth in doing so. I don’t think I will ever get over the wonder of exploring both historical and contemporary characters within the same story. Though hundreds of years apart, Hayley and Emma share struggles that many of us can relate to.
In his book Defiance of the Patriots, Benjamin L. Carp says that “the Tea Party opens up Pandora’s box—out comes chaos, but also hope. In this way it exemplifies an ongoing struggle in America between law and order and democratic protest.” Just as today, the characters in this book struggle with the contents of this box. I hope readers will be spurred on to discuss these things upon finishing the book.
I pray we will ponder history as we move forward with our own. I pray that as we explore our own purposes in this precious life, we would not hesitate to look to the One who is not only able to grant us renewal and strength beyond ourselves, but in whom our true—and greatest—identity can be found.
NATALIE
SETAUKET, NEW YORK
SEPTEMBER 22, 2016
When I was fourteen, I hid a pack of Virginia Slims in the top drawer of my dresser. I never smoked them, just kept them there for over a year. I remember glimpsing the package beneath old training bras and lacy underwear I bought at Victoria’s Secret with my friends, feeling a sense of accomplishment over their very presence in my room.
Something about seeing them—the thin white package with the brown strip, the gold seal still unbroken—made me feel powerful. As if I had some autonomy outside my parents’ overbearing control.
Now, twenty-six years later and about to breach the slender link of trust that remained between me and my sixteen-year-old son, I lifted my hand to where the partially opened drawer of Chris’s desk called to me, beckoning. The laminated wood finish peeled around the edges, revealing smooth, pale plywood beneath. It would be so easy in this empty house. Ten seconds was all it would take.
I could pick a song to play for one of my callers at the radio station in ten seconds. I could fold one of the undershirts my husband, Mike, wore beneath his police uniform. I could shed a tear. Order a coffee. Give a hug. Check a Facebook message. Speak words I could never snatch back.
Gathering a breath, I pulled at the knob of the top drawer. It came open several inches before jamming against an object.
Now committed, I wiggled my finger inside the drawer to free it of the problem—a slim book, from the feel of it. I caught a glimpse of my concentrated face in the reflection of Chris’s blank computer screen. Shame tunneled through me as I faced my act of invasion, yet continued at my task.
The book slipped down, allowing the drawer to glide open. I stared at the unexpected item, its hard cover muted with soft shades of blue, green, and brown.
The Velveteen Rabbit.
I slid the children’s book from the drawer, the tattered paper jacket catching on the sides. In a whisper of time I was back in this very room—the walls a dusky blue with brightly colored truck-and-airplane decals sticking to them. A Furby stuffed animal in Chris’s lap, one tiny hand clutching an oversize ear. Beside him on the carpet, his twin, Maelynn, holding The Velveteen Rabbit across her legs. She read loudly to Chris, who’d taken out his hearing aid in preparation for bed. He peered over her arm at the picture of a bunny on top of a pile of books, thick glasses sliding off the bridge of Chris’s small nose.
There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid.
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I sniffed, shoved the book back into the drawer, and closed it. I hadn’t realized the story was in the house anymore. Sweet that Chris would keep it as a reminder of his childhood. No doubt I worried over my son for nothing. He was busy with school and work, maybe tired from adjusting to his junior year. So he didn’t talk to me like he used to. What teenage boy confided in his mother?
For a long time he lived in the toy cupboard or on the nursery floor, and no one thought very much about him.
He was naturally shy, and being only made of velveteen, some of the more expensive toys quite snubbed him.
I pulled the shade open, allowing bright sunlight to stream into the room onto the postered walls. A collection of vintage prints, boasting Winchesters and Remingtons, amid paintings of wild birds and hunting dogs. I recognized one at the bottom: a picture of a severed snake, symbolizing the colonies at the time of the Revolution. Below the snake were bold letters: JOIN, or DIE.
A chill chased my gaze from the walls and back to the window where a flock of geese sounded their calls over the house. Across Brewster Court, the Nielson preschoolers ran through a sprinkler, enjoying the unseasonably warm afternoon.
I turned from the squealing children to draw the covers up over my son’s unmade bed, careful to smooth out the wrinkles. The scent of old roasted coffee from his part-time job at Dunkin’ Donuts infused the room.
“What is Real?” asked the Rabbit one day.
“When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.”
A pile of books beside Chris’s bed caught my eye. He always kept library books there. The top one read Nathan Hale: The Life and Death of America’s First Spy. I flipped through the remaining titles, similar to the first. Except for one—an older book the same Aegean blue as Chris’s eyes, save for a maroon strip across the binding. The Journal Entries of Mercy Howard. I turned to the first page, a musty scent rising to meet me.
September 22, 1836
Every year, on this date, when I find the leaves hinting at near death, I remember. It’s been sixty years since my Nathan died—strung up from the gallows at the Royal Artillery Park in New York City. All remember his name. And yet I am the one who loved him. His death spun into motion the most tumultuous time in my life, of which I now take up my pen to write.
I can no longer bear to take this secret to my grave. I wish to unburden my conscience and make my story known.
A horn honked outside the window and I jumped, closing the book. A Chevy Impala backed out of the Nielsons’ driveway. The driver beeped and waved good-bye to the glistening children on the lawn.
I replaced the books how I’d found them. They must have been for a school report. Chris had always been into stories of espionage, dreaming of working for the CIA. I hadn’t heard him talk about that for some time—or any other dreams for that matter. I vowed to ask him about the report later, maybe strike up more than a two-sentence conversation.
I exhaled a shaky breath, looked to the desk I’d just invaded—a desk with nothing more to hide than childhood memories. What had I been looking for anyway? Drugs? Porn? A pack of cigarettes? I should be ashamed of myself.
Talk about spying.
I stared at the berber carpet, where the picture of peace still clung to my mind’s eye.
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
I took one more look around Chris’s tidy room, now awash in bright sunlight. All was well. Good, even. Mike was right. I worried over nothing.
I opened the door, my world once again right-side up. My baby—my only son—was fine. My family was fine. Everything was fine.
I left the room, the memory of my daughter’s five-year-old voice echoing through its walls.
“Once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.”
The Rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him. He longed to become Real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad.
He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him.
Mercy
NEW YORK CITY
SEPTEMBER 20, 1776
The sound jolted me from sleep, and I straightened in bed, still upon the feather mattress, my senses heightened. The scent of smoke tainted the salty sea air, and a moment later the bells of Trinity Church called out, beckoning any able men to aid in snuffing out flames.
The men.
They were all gone. The redcoats now in their place.
Another crack came at my window, causing my heart to take up a frantic beat that echoed along with the church bells. I kicked the covers from my feet, cursing the king’s soldiers in my head. Though fresh to Manhattan, I was accustomed to their revelry from my last month in Long Island. If they weren’t deep in their cups at night, they were making mischief in the barn with one of the local village girls. Or trying to woo my sister, Omelia, with Cathay silk or hair adornments or some other inappropriate imported gift. Now, they seemed bent on throwing pebbles at one of the finest homes in the city.
I crept to the sill and peered below to Aunt Beatrice’s fading hydrangea bushes. Moonlight illuminated faint wafts of smoke. In the far west, in the lots of land leased by Trinity Church, lay the taverns and dens of ill repute which had been dubbed “Holy Grounds.” There, orange flames lit the sky.
If only Uncle Thomas were still alive. Though I had pleaded with Aunt to escape with me when General Washington fled and the Regulars arrived, she refused to leave Uncle Thomas’s body, still laid out in the parlor awaiting burial. His funeral had been conducted just the day before, and Aunt Beatrice had taken ill immediately after. I hadn’t the heart to broach the subject of leaving the city again.
A shadowy figure below caught my eye. I shrank back within the room, pressed my cheek to the trim, and looked again. Not a redcoat, but . . .
No, it could not be.
Donning my dressing gown and boots, I lifted the latch of my chambers carefully so as not to wake my aunt in the next room. The wood of the floor protested beneath my slight weight as I descended the stairs; scents left from dinner—chicken pie and roasted apples—drifted to my nose.
I wished Frederick had not left. At the first sign of smoke several hours before, the butler asked for a time of leave. Brow sweating, he had looked out the western window anxiously, claiming he had a mother who needed his assistance to escape the flames.
Aunt Beatrice said this was the first she’d heard of his family.
I opened the front door, where the pungent scent of smoke assaulted me in fresh waves.
Not wanting to leave the safety of the door, lest I was mistaken about the identity of the figure, I imitated the sound of a mourning dove, and held my breath to wait.
A call echoed back to me and a lump lodged within my throat. I closed the door behind me. “N-Nathan?”
’Twas impossible. Nathan was a captain in the Continental Army. Manhattan now belonged to the king’s Regulars. And yet . . .
Strong arms came around me, a familiar smell blocking out that of smoke. I sank into them, relief and instant desire soaking into my limbs. “Nathan!”
“Mercy, forgive me, I knew no other way to see you.”
I turned, stared into the moonlit face of the man I cared for more than any in the world. I cast my arms around his neck and pressed my nose into the black wool of his jacket. He still smelled of leather and books and safety. “It truly is you. But how—”
He placed a finger over my lips, gestured toward the path that led to Aunt Beatrice’s gardens. I clutched his arm, allowed him to lead me away from the house and along the deserted trail.
As the house disappeared from view, my excitement over seeing my intended waned and my questions increased. When fina
lly we reached the stone bench in the back of the garden, I turned to Nathan, put a hand on the stubbled cheek of his handsome face. Moonlight accentuated the delicate smattering of scars upon his forehead, the result of a flash of gunpowder in his face as a boy. In this moment it all seemed bittersweet.
“The fire . . . is it being contained?”
Nathan looked to the west. “I fear not, though I have not seen it firsthand.”
“You should not be here. The Regulars—they are numerous.”
Nathan gritted his teeth. “And yet ’tis safe for you?”
“Uncle Thomas fell ill weeks ago. Aunt Beatrice sent word to Setauket asking for help, and when Abraham offered to escort me, I did not hesitate to come.” Aunt Beatrice—so unlike Mother. So capable and strong. Some of my happiest memories as a child involved spending summers in Manhattan with her and Uncle Thomas. But Uncle’s illness had shaken her. She had needed me, and I did not regret coming, even now being hemmed in behind enemy lines. “He passed earlier this week.”
“I am sorry, Mercy. I know you were fond of him.”
“Aye. Aunt Beatrice is beside herself with grief. It made me realize how short life can be . . . It made me think of us.” I would not say outright that we had held off our nuptials for far too long, but I could certainly hint it.
A look akin to defeat crossed Nathan’s face. ’Twas unfamiliar and it made my stomach curdle. I sought to fix it. “Forgive me. I know you must finish this fight. I love you all the more for it.”
As a woman, I could not take up arms and go to war. But I could wed a man whose beliefs mirrored my own, who might even redeem our traitorous family from the shame which now marked us.
“Word has come that my uncle William was the one to lead General Howe through Jamaica Pass.” I allowed the words to settle between us, wondered if Nathan would condemn me for the actions of my family.
“’Tis not your burden, Mercy.”
“You were there, at Brooklyn. Had you been killed, it would have been due to my own blood.”
The Tea Chest Page 31
